The high proportion of Irish fans in New Zealand for the Rugby World Cup is not just down to forced emigration, writes SHANE HEGARTY, it's because right now, there's no better place in the world to be
LAST WEEK, I was in the Departures area of Auckland airport. Of the many corners of New Zealand an Irish person would want to be right now, the emigration desk at Auckland airport ranks somewhere after the local prison.
“Aren’t you going the wrong direction?” asks the officer as he stamps the passport. Don’t. Just don’t.
“Why are you going home now ?” asks the woman in Duty Free. OK, enough.
The Irish who are at the Rugby World Cup may have New Zealand stamped on their passports, but it might just as easily read “Your Happy Place”. They are 12,000 miles away from home – we’re about as far from New Zealand as any country can be.
Back here, there have been plaintive comments about this being a gathering of a new emigrant generation; as if the tale of so many young Irish on the other side of the world is one of tears streaking the facepaint.
But there, it is as if being on the other side of the world has given them the licence to forget all that is gloomy and negative about Ireland now, and instead take everything they love about being Irish – and everything the world expects us to be – and dress it up in the silliest outfit they can make.
Where to begin?
Those arresting “Morph suits” that the camera men easily hunt down in the crowds? The three guys in co-ordinated spangly white, green and orange suits?
The biker who sat behind us at the Russia game, his face and ZZ-Top beard dyed the colours of the Tricolour? We didn’t even notice him until we looked at pictures afterwards. All that effort and it didn’t even stand out, although he may have been in a blind spot caused by the peaked-cap-with-ginger-mullet I was wearing at the time.
My favourite? A grey bearded man, in his 60s at least, wearing shorts, an Irish jersey and a white sports jacket, all lovingly matched with a green spandex bodysuit. He was standing quietly in the lobby of the Irish team’s hotel in Rotorua after the Russia match, with a drink in his hand as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Which it was, in a way.
Behind him, the Irish team were milling around, signing autographs, posing for photographs, being endlessly patient with the growing crowd that poured in thanks to text messages being relayed around the town. Rotorua is a small place and the Irish players were a regular sight on the streets. They were only ever 60 seconds away from being asked to pose for another photograph. They never once looked bored by it.
When they talk about their awe for the amount of Irish support, don’t write that off as lip service. I met one player on the street and, unashamed gawping fan that I am, thanked him for the Australia match. “Yeah, it must have been great,” he replied as if he was somehow missing out a bit.
THE SUPPORTERS' DEMOGRAPHICis, on the whole, strikingly young, and you do meet new emigrants out there, heading for work in post-earthquake Christchurch, or over from Australia for a few days. You also meet those already settled in New Zealand, some struggling in that economy as they would have in ours.
But you also meet honeymooners, backpackers, families, retirees and the odd person who watched the Australian match and decided that, screw the credit card, they were booking a flight and getting down there.
During the pool stages, there were fans from each country – lots of Welsh, many South Sea islanders, even a few Russians – but there were Irish everywhere. Every time you pulled into the car park of one of the many volcanic lakes, thermal areas or bungee jumps, there was a camper van there with a tricolour or five hanging from it. (God knows what state some of them are in by now.) Every café you walked into, you would see a jersey or hear an accent. Every newspaper you opened, there was a trio of Irish fans grinning out at you. The TV news had the story of an Irish guy looking to date 50 Kiwi women. “I’ve got the accent,” he purred at New Zealand’s females.
Ok, so we could probably have done without that ambassador.
Drink is a major part of the experience, as you’d expect, but the giddiness is there in every minute that the pints are not. It is kindled by New Zealand’s determination to make this a superb tournament. And it is.
High ticket prices aside, everyone appears to have bought into it. Hillsides have giant ferns patterned out of tyres. Homes often display the flags of New Zealand and the occupant’s ancestral nation. Shops have adopted second teams, so that even the minnows get their supporters. At the Russian match, several Kiwis wore full Cold War military regalia.
It is extraordinary to travel through a country whose moodand sense of self-worth will be defined by the tournament and the success or failure of the All Blacks.
Over the past month in New Zealand, three stories dominated the nightly news: the ongoing rebuilding of Christchurch after the earthquake; the Pike River mining disaster, which killed 29 and has been the subject of a public inquiry; and the Rugby World Cup. Two are stories of genuine, literal loss; but the country’s soul is bound with sport in a way that is unparalleled elsewhere.
After 24 years, the ache for victory goes deep. The rest of the countries can lose and move on. Not the Kiwis.
It is not too much to suggest that New Zealand vs Ireland is now the dream final, a common bond having been found in the beating of Australia. “We’re like kings here,” an Irishman said to me the day after that match, as yet another random Kiwi had shouted “good on ya” at him.
Yet, it could be over in a matter of hours. That thought is almost unbearable, because it has been an epic trip, and one that deserves a full run. It is true that there are many there because this country sent them in the wrong direction, but anyone in New Zealand at this moment is in the exactly the right place.
